


Two for the Price of One

by SusanMM



Category: The Cape (2011), The Wizard (TV)
Genre: Circus, Crossover, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanMM/pseuds/SusanMM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon McKay is kidnapped.  Can Palm City's own superhero, The Cape, rescue him before he's sold to the highest bidder?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two for the Price of One

**Standard fanfic disclaimer** that wouldn’t last ten seconds in a court of law:  these aren’t my characters, I’m just borrowing them for, um, typing practice.  That’s it, typing practice.  I’ll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged.  This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing.  For the purposes of this story, I am having both shows take place in TV "now", which means that Simon and Alex A, have only aged a year or two since _The Wizard_ was cancelled, and B, they have access to cell phones, PCs, the Internet, and other devices that either didn't exist or were very different when _The Wizard_ was on TV.  Originally published in the fanzine  Our Favorite Things #28:  a FanQ nominee for Best Multi-Fandom Story.

 

**Two for the Price of One**

_The Wizard/The Cape_

by Susan M. M.

 

**Place:  Palm City, Southern California**

**Time:  The Present**

                "I love the circus," Simon McKay announced.  He was not enunciating clearly; his mouth was full of cotton candy.

                "What's that?" asked Alex Jagger.  He was a handsome man, fit and muscular.  He was ten years younger than Simon ... and two and a half feet taller.

                "I love the circus," Simon repeated.  He had a slight, very slight, English accent.  He'd been born in Liverpool, but had traveled all over the world before immigrating to the United States.  He was 3' 11", in his late thirties.

                "I'm surprised you didn't run away and join the circus when you were a kid," Alex said.

                Simon shrugged.  "Hard to run away from the middle of the Pacific."

                Alex said nothing for a moment.  When Simon's parents had realized that he wasn't going to grow big, they had decided he needed to grow up.  He been apprenticed to a freighter captain as a cabin boy.  "So this," he glanced around the big top, "is part of your 'better late than never' theory?"

                Simon nodded.  His parents, with the best of intentions, had denied him the normal carefree pleasures of childhood.  He was trying to make up for lost time.

                Three elephants marched around the ring.  A pretty lady rode on the first elephant.  She smiled and waved at the crowd.  She turned to Simon and Alex; she blew them a kiss.  At least, Alex flattered himself that the kiss was aimed at him.  Tall, dark, and handsome, he was no stranger to female attention.  On the other hand, the kiss might have been meant for Simon.  Many women thought he was cute.  Or perhaps her routine simply included throwing kisses at designated spots around the ring.

                The second elephant had  a Little Person riding it.  He wore a turban and a glittering outfit that looked like a cross between a matador's   _traje de luces_ and something out of the Arabian Nights.  He smiled and waved at the crowd.  As he approached Simon and Alex, he turned and looked at them.  His eyes narrowed.  He leaned down and whispered to the elephant.  The elephant's trunk reached out and grabbed the gray tweed cap covering Simon's red curls.

                "Hey!" Simon called out.

                The elephant handed the cap up to its rider.  With a grin, the man removed his turban and placed Simon's cap on his bald head.  The audience roared with laughter.

                "Do you know him?" Alex whispered.

                "He looks vaguely familiar," Simon allowed.  "We might have met at a convention."

                Alex nodded.  Simon attended a great many conventions and conferences every year:  for physicists, for computer programmers, for toymakers, for inventors, for science fiction fans, for Little People.  As his bodyguard, Alex had to attend all of them.  The federal agent pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of the man wearing Simon's cap.  He was sure they'd get it back after the show, but just in case, he'd download the picture to the computer and run it through facial recognition software.  Simon had enemies.  The CIC didn't pay Alex to be reckless with Simon's safety.

                The third elephant came past, ridden by a man in a clown costume.  He didn't smile and wave.  Instead, it looked like he was holding on for dear life. 

                "Do you suppose that's part of the act," Alex wondered aloud, "or is he really scared of heights?"

                Simon shook his head.  "I'm sure it's just part of the act, like grabbing my cap.  Most of these folk  were born and raised in the circus.  Their families have been at this for generations."

                The elephants came around a second time.  The man on the middle elephant removed Simon's cap, replaced the turban on his head, and tossed the gray cap into the audience.  Alex caught it.

                "Thanks,"  Simon called out.

                "Meet me after the show, Doc," the man on the elephant called back.

                "He seems to know you," Alex said quietly.  On the other hand, a lot of people knew, or at least knew of, Simon McKay.  Not all of them were friends.

                As they elephants marched out of the big top, the ringmaster stepped forward, juggling five apples.   He was a big Black man, dressed like a Gypsy king.   His hair was beginning to go gray, and he had a mustache and a small goatee.  "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, are you enjoying yourselves?"

                The audience roared with approval.

                "I can't hear you," the ringmaster fibbed.  He caught the apples and tucked them into his pockets.

                The audience cheered and roared louder.

                The ringmaster gestured dramatically.  A spotlight glowed on the perch high above.  For a moment the perch was empty.  Then two hands reached out of the darkness.  The woman who'd been riding the elephant pulled herself up to the perch, then bowed.

                "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the ravishingly lovely, the insanely reckless -- Raia!"

                Raia posed, one arm flung up in a graceful, triumphant gesture, the other hand discreetly holding on to the safety wire.

                "Watch and be amazed."  A smaller spotlight gleamed on the ringmaster.  The light caught the diamond earring in his right ear, making it sparkle.  He predicted, "You will be dazzled as Raia dances on the high wire."

                Simon and Alex watched as Raia first walked across the tightrope, a balancing pole in her hands, then retraced her steps -- backwards.  Next she flew over the circus, turning somersaults in mid-air as she leapt from one trapeze to the other.

                Raia performed acrobatics as the audience gasped.  The ringmaster did magic tricks.   The tigers roared and jumped through hoops.   Clowns did slapstick.  The bald Little Person threw knives,  narrowly missing Raia by mere inches.  The crew was small; each performer did two or three different acts.  Even the clown who ridden the elephant, looking as if he were terrified that he was about to fall, and the Little Person doubled as  popcorn vendors wandering up and down the bleachers.

                When the show ended, Simon asked, "So, what did you think?"

                "Well, it wasn't Ringling Brothers, but it was fun," Alex replied.

                "Bah, Ringling Brothers has so much going on at one time that you can't focus on anything.  Lets the mediocre acts hide in the confusion," a voice said behind them.  "Here, we emphasize quality over quantity."

                Alex and Simon turned around to see the cap-thief.  He had golden hoop earrings in both ears and a small goatee.

                He stuck out a hand.  "Don't know if you remember me, Doc.  The Mighty Rollo.  We met at the LPA[1] convention a year or two back."

                Simon shook hands.  "Of course, of course."

                "Who's the cop?" Rollo asked. 

                "I'm not a cop," Alex denied.

                "This is my friend, Alex Jagger," Simon introduced.

                "Nice to meet you."  Alex shook hands with Rollo.  "Good show."

                "Ah, this is  nothing.  These are our winter quarters; we're down to a skeleton crew.  You should see us come summer, when we go on the road."  Rollo looked Simon in the eye.  He couldn't do that with many people without craning his neck, but Simon was 3'11" to his 4'1".  "If you can wait half an hour or so until the crowd clears out and I get changed, I'd love a chance to get reacquainted.  There's a bar near here where the beer is cold and the barmaids are sassy.  I'll buy the first round," Rollo offered.

                "I'm not much of a drinker," Simon confessed.

                "How about dinner, then?  There's an Italian place not far from here, has the best lasagna in Palm City.  I can get a beer or some _vino_ to go with mine,  and you can have water or soda if you want," Rollo offered.  He glanced at Alex.  "The cop can come, too, if he wants."

                "I'm not a cop," Alex repeated.

                "You're packing heat," Rollo pointed out.

                "I'm a federal agent," Alex admitted.

                "Cop, fed.  Same diff," Rollo declared.

                "My bodyguard," Simon explained.  "I haven't worked for the Pentagon in years, but they're still convinced that Moscow is out to get me."  He shrugged.  "I'm in more danger from Mattel."

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                The ringmaster sat at a dressing table, carefully removing his make-up.  Rollo called out to him.   "Hey, Max."

                "Yes?" Max Malini replied.

                "Just wanted you to know.  Met up with a friend, we're going to dinner and catch up a bit," Rollo announced.

                "The short guy with the cap?" Max asked.  He removed the diamond stud he'd worn for the performance, and replaced it with his usual gold hoop.

                Rollo nodded.  He glanced left and right.  "Vince around?"

                "No, he's helping with clean up."

                Rollo reached into his pocket.  Grinning, he said, "I cleaned up pretty well myself."  He pulled out the money from the pockets he'd picked and placed most of it on the dressing table.

                Max picked up the money.  He eyeballed the pile, but didn't count it -- yet.  "Between what we lifted and what we took in at the ticket booth, a decent haul tonight."

                Rollo nodded.

                "You don't want to embarrass Vince, or you don't want him disapproving?" Max asked.

                Rollo shrugged, unwilling or unable to answer the question.  "You know Vince -- he's got scruples about stuff like this."

                Max nodded.  "Scruples are an expensive and awkward thing for someone in Vince's position."

                Rollo shrugged again.  "Just figured it would be easier not to rub his nose in it.  What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

                Vince Faraday had been a cop.  Furthermore, he had been one of the few honest cops in the notoriously corrupt Palm City Police Department -- hence his moral objections to theft.

                "A gentleman, Brummell said, is one who never gives offense unintentionally," Max quoted.  "You are the very soul of courtesy, Rollo."

                "I try, Boss."

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Parisi's looked like a hole in the wall.  The paint on the walls was chipped and fading.  The linoleum was cracked.  Unframed paper maps of Italy and travel posters of Venice and Pisa decorated the room.  Two of the light bulbs in the ceiling lights were burnt out.  But it had the best lasagna on the West Coast, and the beer was cold.  Rollo had no complaints.  Neither did Simon.

                Alex sat two tables away, eating fettuccine.  He kept a discreet eye on Simon while allowing him and Rollo their privacy.

                Simon and Rollo dug into the lasagna enthusiastically.  They discussed everything under the sun:  the problems of being short in a world designed for tall people, movies they'd seen, life in the circus, Simon's latest invention, the merits of plain rhubarb pie vs. strawberry-rhubarb pie.

                "I was in Milwaukee for a computer convention.  The hotel coffee shop had apple pie with cheese baked into the pie," Simon explained.  "They put a layer of Cheddar just above the crust and under the apples."

                "Sounds good," Rollo agreed.  "You ever get to Baraboo, Wisconsin, where the Circus World Museum is?"

                Simon shook his head.

                "It's worth the trip."  Rollo picked up his beer mug and took another slug.  "Now, if you ever get to Memphis, once you get done with Graceland and Beale Street, you need to check out this museum of theirs called the Pink Palace.  They've got a miniature circus there, all hand-carved.  Some guy spent years -- literally years -- building it.  Made it to look like one of the big circuses of the '30s --"

                "Hey!  What are you doing?"

                Rollo was interrupted by the waitress' outcry.  He and Simon looked up.  Two men in gas masks stood in the front of the restaurant.  One held an odd-looking rifle.

                Alex pulled his gun from its holster.  "Simon!  Down!"

                The man in the gas mask fired first.  His rifle spit out a gas grenade.  It exploded against the wall.  A blueish mist spread through the dining room.

                Alex fired and missed.  He grabbed a napkin and held it in front of his face.  He fired again.  Then he, like everyone else in the restaurant, collapsed.   

                "The boss said to grab the little guy."  His voice was muffled by the gas mask.  "But there's two of 'em.  Which one do we take?"

                "Both of 'em."

                "You think he'll pay extra for double?"

                "Naw, but they're sitting together, right?  So one's McKay and the other's prob'ly his brother or something.  We take both, and then if the egghead don't behave, Mr. Katanga can make an example of one without damaging the merchandise."

                His partner nodded his approval.  They walked up to the table Simon and Rollo were sharing.  Each grabbed an unconscious Little Person, slinging them over their shoulders in a fireman's carry.

**                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Simon blinked.  Everything was out of focus.  His stomach burbled uncomfortably, and for a minute he thought he was going to throw up.  There was something cold and hard on his wrists.  He heard swearing to his left.  He turned his head, his eyes still trying -- unsuccessfully -- to focus.  He blinked again.  He could make out the slightly blurry form of Rollo.

                Rollo sat in a chair a few feet away from him.  The words the circus performer used would make a sailor blush.

                Something metallic caught Simon's eye.  He glanced down.  He was handcuffed to the chair.  Rollo, he saw, was in a similar condition.  "You okay?"

                "No."

                The door opened.  Katanga, a tall Black man, stepped in.  The two men who had abducted Simon and Rollo came in behind him.  "Good evening, Dr. McKay."

                Simon looked up at his captor.  Katanga spoke in a British accent.  His clothes were English, too -- Savile Row, if Simon were any judge of three-piece suits.  His skin was so dark a brown as to be nearly black.  He wore a Rolex on his left wrist.  On his right hand was a gold ring, inset with a large ruby.  Simon said nothing.

                "And who is this?"  He turned to face Rollo.

                Rollo kicked him.  "Pudding-and-Tame.  Ask me again and I'll tell you the -- "

                Katanga slapped Rollo before he could finish the childish taunt.  His ring cut Rollo's cheek. 

                "Who are you?" Simon demanded.

                Ignoring Simon, Katanga ordered Rollo, "Try again."

                He hesitated a moment before answering.  A trickle of blood crept down his face.  "Rollo."

                "Rollo what?"  When an answer was not forthcoming, he raised his hand again.

                "Just Rollo.  I only use one name -- like Cher or Liberace."

                "Mr. Jenkyns, our guest needs to learn some manners."

                "Right, Boss."  One of the henchman picked up a cylindrical device from a nearby table.  It looked like a giant dildo with two electrodes on top.  He turned it on.

                "Do you gentlemen know what this is?"

                Rollo swallowed, but said nothing.  He was the one Jenkyns was approaching, after all.

                "An electric cattle prod," Simon replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

                "And do you know what it does to human flesh?" Katanga peered down at Rollo.

                Rollo nodded.

                "I need two names for the tombstone.  Now, Rollo what?  Rollo McKay?  Rollo Kennedy?  Rollo Obama?"  When the circus performer didn't respond, Katanga gestured to his henchman.

                Jenkyns stepped closer to Rollo.  The top of the cattle prod sparked malevolently.

                "Jones," Rollo blurted out.  "My legal name is Roland Jones."

                With a disappointed frown on his face, Jenkyns lowered the cattle prod.

                Katanga smiled.  "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

                "Who are you?" Simon repeated.  "What do you want?"

                "You're a clever man, Dr. McKay.  I'd have thought you'd be able to suss that out on your own.  Money, Dr. McKay.  A very large sum of money."

                Simon squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

                "The Americans might ransom you, but more likely the Eastern Europeans or the North Koreans will buy you.  I hope for your sake you're good at foreign languages."

                "This is the 21st century," Rollo protested.  "You can't -- "

                Katanga nodded at Jenkyns.  The cattle prod came down on Rollo's arm.  He screamed.

                "I will offer the pair of you together:  two for the price of one.  If we cut off one of your fingers, Doctor, it may slow you down in the laboratory.   Mr. Jones, on the other hand, has ten fingers which are of no use to me, but which may have value to you."

                Simon licked his lips nervously.  "I cooperate, and Rollo doesn't get hurt.  I give you trouble, and he pays for it instead of me."

                Katanga nodded.   "You are worth a great deal of money.  His life means nothing to me, save as a means to persuade you to good behavior."

                Simon looked at Rollo.  He was an acquaintance, not a friend, but Simon couldn't allow him to be tortured for his sake.  He bowed his head in defeat.  "I'll behave myself."

                "Excellent."  Katanga turned to his henchmen.  "Take them to the other room.  You have your switchblade, Mr. Lopez?"  When he nodded, Katanga continued,  "If Dr. McKay tries anything, cut off Mr. Jones' thumb.  If Mr. Jones tries anything, use the cattle prod."

                Rollo's face went white.  Without his thumb, he'd never throw another knife, never pick another pocket.

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Alex coughed himself awake.  He felt something cold and slimy on his face.  He sat up slowly, very slowly, since each movement jarred his aching head and increased his nausea.  Fettucine.  He'd been lying face down in a plate of fettucine.  Absent-mindedly, he grabbed a napkin and wiped his face off.  His brain began to function.  Fettucine.  Restaurant.  The gas grenade.  "Simon!"

                Alex tried to stand up, but collapsed back into his seat.  He forced himself to try again, and succeeded this time.  He looked around.  Everything was blurry and out of focus.  The dining room was full of unconscious diners and waitresses.  A few of them were beginning to wake up.  Alex looked at Simon's table.  It was empty, just as he'd feared.

                Alex pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Jenkyns unlocked Rollo's handcuffs, then shoved him forward.  Rollo fell to the floor.  The door slammed shut behind him.

                "You okay?"  Simon went to help him up.

                Rollo swore.  "I'll live.  He turned his head as he heard the lock click shut behind them.

                "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean for you to -- "

                "Ain't your fault, Doc."

                "How's your arm?"

                "Hurts like hell."

                Simon checked Rollo's arm.  The cattle prod had burned a hole through the shirt sleeve, and left an ugly mark on his arm.  He glanced at their surroundings.  They were locked in a bathroom.  The ladies' room, judging by the lavender-scented soap dispenser and the artificial flowers by the sink. 

                  "I should have fought back more," Rollo complained.  "Normally, I give as good as I get."  He seemed more frustrated at his lack of fighting back than he did by his wound.

                Simon wet a paper towel and tried to clean the wound.  The cool water should at least ease the pain a little.  "Normally, you haven't been drugged and handcuffed," he pointed out.  "Normally, you're not dealing with people with electric cattle prods and gas grenades."

                Rollo nodded wryly.  "Barroom brawls are more my usual style."

                "We were outgunned and outmanuevered from the get-go.  Our job now," Simon remembered Alex's many discussions on security, "is to survive.  Cooperate as much as possible, keep our eyes open for a way to escape, and wait for rescue."

                "Rescue," Rollo repeated softly.  He'd prefer to break out on his own, but that might not be possible.  He had a lockpick in his shoe, but it did him no good with lock on the other side of the door.  "I've got friends, too:  Max, Vince, Ruvi, JoJo.  Don't underestimate them.  Circus folk are tough."

                "Let's see if there's a way out, or anything we can use as a weapon," Simon suggested.They examined the bathroom.  There were two stalls, one narrow, one wide enough for a wheelchair.   Other than a cot in front of the stalls, it was a very ordinary bathroom.  Unfortunately, there was nothing they could use as a weapon.  Simon was disappointed that there were no cleaning or first aid supplies stored in the bathroom.  Mixing ammonia and iodine, or ammonia and chlorine bleach, could make a very potent -- though highly unstable -- explosive.

                Rollo pointed to the things on top of the cot.  "A deck of cards, a crossword puzzle book, and a mechanical pencil.  Guess they don't want us to get bored."

Simon shook his head.  "Maybe my brain is still fogged from the gas, but I don't see any way to use these to break out."

                Rollo nodded.  He didn'ttell the toymaker about his ace in the hole:  the Cape.  Simon would think he was crazy if he said A, Palm City had its own real life superhero, and B, they were friends. 

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                "They both wore gas masks," Alex repeated. 

                A uniformed police officer came up and interrupted them.  "The cash register hasn't been touched, Lieutenant Foster."

                "I told you, this wasn't a robbery.  It was a kidnapping, a premeditated kidnapping," Alex insisted.  "Why should they bother with a couple of hundred dollars when they can get a million for Dr. McKay?"

                "A million?" the police lieutenant repeated.

                "Maybe several million.  This is Dr. Simon McKay.  The Wizard."

                "The Wizard?  My kids have some of his toys," the policeman said.  The nametag on his uniform said Mullins.

                "Before he became a toymaker, he was a weapons analyst for the Pentagon.  His brain is chockful of classified information.  Our government would pay a fortune for his safe return.  Other governments would pay as much or more to know what he knows." 

                "And the other midget?" Lt. Foster asked.

                "Little Person," Alex corrected automatically.  "Collateral damage -- just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

                "And his name was Rollo?"

                Alex nodded.  "He never gave me his last name.  He introduced himself as 'the Mighty Rollo.'  He works at the circus at Trolley Park."  He stopped and concentrated a moment, trying to remember the circus' official name.  Max Malini's Fantastic Oddities and Amazements, or something like that.

                Lt. Foster looked at his cellphone, studying the picture Alex had downloaded to his phone.  "That explains the outfit."

                "He wasn't dressed like that at dinner, except for the earrings.  Blue jeans, blue and white striped shirt, black leather jacket.  Dr. McKay was wearing brown pants and a cream-colored shirt.  He had a brown checked jacket.  Tweed."

                The plain-clothes detective jotted the description down in his notebook.  "This is one for the freak files, all right.  A restaurant gassed, two midgets kidnapped."

                Before Alex could explain that Rollo and Simon were both dwarves, not midgets, and that the correct term was Little People,  Officer Mullins spoke up.

                "The only thing that could make this case any weirder was if the Cape was involved."

                "The Cape?" Alex repeated.

                "Urban folklore," Lt. Foster said coldly.

                Simultaneously, Mullins announced enthusiastically, "Vigilante -- read too many comic books -- he thinks he's Batman."

                "Urban folklore," Lt. Foster repeated the police department's official story.  He gave Mullins a dirty look.

                Alex glanced from Foster to Mullins, sure he was missing something.  "I've already contacted Washington.  Since the CIC is responsible for Dr. McKay's safety, they want me to coordinate with the local FBI office."

                Foster shook his head.  "Palm City doesn't have an FBI office.  The nearest one is in L. A."

                "A town this size?  But kidnapping is a federal crime," Alex protested.

                "Palm City has the first fully privatized police force in the country.  We can handle it without the feds' help."  The look Foster gave Alex made it clear that included the CIC as well as the FBI. 

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                "I'll see your one million and raise you two million."  Rollo was glad they were playing for imaginary money.  He'd always considered himself a good poker player, but Simon played like he was one of the Maverick brothers.

                Simon sat on one end of the cot.  Rollo sat on the other, with the cards between them.  "I think you're bluffing," he began.  "I'll --"  He turned his head as he heard the door unlock.

                The door opened.  Katanga stood there, Lopez and Jenkyns behind him.  Lopez had a gun.  Jenkyns had the cattle prod.  Katanga held two pairs of handcuffs.

                "On your feet, gentlemen," Katanga ordered.  Laying down their cards, they obeyed silently.  "Hands on your heads, please."

                Simon and Rollo exchanged a quick glance.  This was not the right time for an escape attempt.  Rollo looked at the cattle prod, then slowly raised his hands and placed them on his head.  Simon glared angrily at Katanga.

                "Dr. McKay, you do remember what happens to Mr. Jones if you are uncooperative, don't you?"

                Simon put his hands on his head.

                "Kneel."

                Rollo and Simon sank to their knees.  Katanga pulled Rollo's hands off his head and cuffed his arms together behind his back.  Then he did the same to Simon.  He stepped in front of them and gestured to them to rise.  Simon scrambled awkwardly to his feet.  Rollo rose with the grace of a professional athlete and performer.

                "Come with me, please."  Katanga led the way out of the cell.   Lopez gestured with the pistol for them to follow.  Rollo gave Jenkyns and the cattle prod a final glance, then he followed Katanga out of the room.  Simon followed him.

                They were led down a short corridor to another, larger room.  It was empty except for a video camera on a tripod, a card table, and a single chair.  Lopez pushed Rollo down into the chair.  After handing his pistol to Jenkyns, he unlocked Rollo's handcuffs.  He then re-handcuffed him to the arms of the chair.

                "You want me to get his feet, too, so he doesn't kick?" Lopez asked.

                "That might be wise," Katanga agreed.

                Lopez had more handcuffs in his pocket.  A moment later, Rollo's ankles were manacled to the legs of the chair.  Rollo glared at him, but kept his mouth shut.  His arm still hurt; he didn't want another jolt.

                "Stand over there, Doctor."  Katanga pointed to the far end of the room.  

                Lopez followed Simon as he walked up to the wall.  Without a word, Lopez unlocked the handcuffs and removed them.  Simon rubbed his wrists gently as Lopez walked back to the card table.  He picked up a newspaper and walked back to Simon.  "Hold this."

                Simon glanced down at the paper.  It was that morning's _Los Angeles Herald._

 _"_ Hold up the newspaper so the headline shows," Katanga directed.

                Simon took a deep breath.  It was a kidnapper's trick, to show that the hostage was alive on a particular date.  He adjusted the newspaper.

                Katanga took a large cardboard sign and propped it up in front of the tripod.  "Look into the camera and read this."

                Simon read the sign silently.  "I won't read that.  It sounds like I'm doing this voluntarily."

                Katanga nodded at Lopez.  Lopez removed a switchblade from his pocket and pressed the button.  An evil-looking blade popped out.  "Really, Dr. McKay, is your pride worth Mr. Jones' thumb?"

                Simon closed his eyes.  He thought quickly.  "All right, you win."  He started to drop the newspaper, then grabbed it before it could fall to the floor.  The left side of the paper he held with his thumb behind the paper and his index and middle fingers in front.  The right side of the paper he clasped between his thumb and ring finger.  His index and middle fingers were in front of the paper.  He started to read aloud in a deadpan voice.

                "My name is Dr. Simon McKay.  I am an inventor and weapons designer."  He crossed his right index and middle fingers.  "My services are for sale to the highest bidder.  The bidding starts at one million dollars."  He let his fingers slide apart and grasped the newspaper with them.

                "It's good you never attempted a career in Hollywood, Dr. McKay.  You lack the necessary enthusiasm," Katanga chided.  He replayed the videotape, watching it carefully.

                "Boss, did you see that?" Jenkyns asked.

                "What?"

                They watched the snippet of videotape again.  "He crossed his fingers," Jenkyns pointed out.

                "Really, Doctor, such juvenile tricks?  I thought better of you."  Katanga turned to Lopez.  "Relieve Mr. Jones of his thumb."

                "Right or left?" Lopez asked.

                "Either."

                "No!" Simon and Rollo shouted in unison.  Rollo tried to struggle, but four pairs of handcuffs held him fast to the chair.

                Lopez put his left hand on the back of Rollo's right hand, pinning him down.

                "No, please," Simon begged.  "I'll do it again.  I'll do it the way you want it."

                Lopez lay the knife blade on the top of Rollo's thumb.  He looked up at Katanga, waiting for further instructions.  "Teach him a lesson or second chance, Boss?"

                "Please," Simon repeated.  "No games, no tricks.  Let me film it again."

                Lopez put the least little bit of pressure on the knife, just barely breaking the skin.

                "Don't," Simon pleaded.  "I'll cooperate.  I give you my word."

                "Mr. Lopez, move your knife to Mr. Jones' first two fingers.  Since Dr. McKay is willing to give us his word, we will give him a second chance.  But if he tries anything foolish, cut off the same two fingers that he crossed."

                "Right, Boss."

                Simon couldn't manage enthusiasm under the circumstances, but he read the placard again.  "My name is Dr. Simon McKay.  I am an inventor and weapons designer.  My services are for sale to the highest bidder.  The bidding starts at one million dollars." 

                Katanga turned off the camera.  "Much better.  Is there going to be any more foolishness?"

                Simon shook his head. 

                "Take them back to their cell.  I'll post this on the Internet."

                Lopez pressed down on the knife just enough to draw blood.  Rollo bit his lip to keep from crying out.   Lopez turned to face Simon.  "Just a reminder, Shorty.  The boss doesn't like games.  Got it?"

                Simon nodded.

                "What about you, Baldy?"

                "Got it," Rollo muttered.

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                The circus grounds were dark.  They were quiet.  The only sounds were the wind rustling, blowing bits of litter across the ground, soft animal sounds, indistinct but vaguely bestial, and the echo of Alex's own footsteps.

                "Hello!  Is anyone here?"

                There was no answer.

                Alex walked further into the grounds, near the trailers where the performers lived.  "Hello!"

                "Go away.  We're closed."

                He headed toward the sound of the voice.

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Simon plopped down on the cot.  He buried his face in his hands.

                Rollo went over to the sink and ran cold water over his hands.  He grabbed a paper towel and gently patted his hand dry.  Then he took a second paper towel, folded it over several times, and wrapped it around his thumb.  "The crossed fingers were a good idea, Doc.  Just too bad it didn't work."

                "I almost cost you your thumb."

                "Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."  Rollo tried to keep his voice upbeat, so Simon wouldn't know how much his hand hurt.  "I've gotten scraped up worse than this when we're on the road, helping set up the tents."

                Simon did not reply.

                Rollo thought of Orwell.  "I've got a friend who's pretty good with the Internet.  Once they post that video on-line, she'll be able to track it."

                Simon shook his head.  "They'll route it and reroute it through a dozen different servers in a dozen different countries, bouncing it from one IP to another until it's impossible to track.

                Rollo thought of Orwell; a half-smile escaped his lips.  Yogi was smarter than the average bear.  Orwell was smarter than the average hacker.  And prettier, too.

                Neither said anything for several minutes.

                Finally, Simon broke the awkward silence.  "While we're waiting to be rescued, I'll stall as much as I can.  I'll cooperate with them to keep you from getting hurt.  Alex is a CIC agent.  He's very good at his job.  I trust him completely.  I'm sure he'll find us and get us out of here."

                "I hear a 'comma, but' there," Rollo said.

                "If -- if Alex isn't able to rescue us ....  If I'm sold to the North Koreans or the Syrians ....  I won't make weapons again.  I can't.  If it's a choice between hundreds of thousands dying or two dying," he exhaled heavily.  "I -- I'm sorry, Rollo."

                Rollo didn't say anything.  In the abstract, he could understand what Simon was saying.  Do the math, and there was only one possible choice.  Just like _Star Trek:_ the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.  But he couldn't tell Simon it was all right -- not when he was the one who was going to be tortured and eventually killed.  Rollo reached under his shirt and pulled out his cross necklace.  He raised the cross to his lips, kissed it, and prayed that either the Cape or Alex would find them in time.

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Max Malini moved his bishop forward.  "You run around rooftops at night, you fight Chess and Scales and the Lich, but you're afraid of a harmless elephant."  He shook his head and tsked disapprovingly.

                "Harmless?  That beast is out to get me," Vince Faraday protested.  He was a tall, muscular man with brown hair and blue eyes. 

                "Primrose is a pussy cat."  Max picked up his wine glass and took a sip.

                "A seven-thousand pound pussy cat," Vince retorted.  He moved his knight.  He raised his wine glass to his lips and drank.

                "Pansy, Primrose, and Petunia," Max named the three elephants, "are old ladies.  Sweet and gentle.  This is a semi-retirement for them."

                "Well, that old lady's bucket list includes smushing me to death."

                "Vince, Vince," Max chided gently.  He swirled the wine in his glass before taking another sip.

                An unfamiliar voice came from outside Max's trailer.  "Hello!  Is anyone there?"

                "Who'd be coming 'round at this hour?" Vince asked.

                "Hello!"   They heard the voice call again.

                "Get back."  Max gestured to the back of the trailer.  He went to the door and opened it.  "Go away.  We're closed.

                A figure of a man headed toward him.

                "We're closed," Max repeated.

                "I need to talk to you about Rollo."  The man came closer.

                "He's not here.  Come back tomorrow, during business hours."  Max started to close the door.

                "I know he's not here.  I take it the police haven't been here yet?"

                "The police?  Why would the police come?"  Max fibbed, "We are honest entertainers.  A jealous husband might come after Rollo, but not the constabulary."

                "I've got some bad news for you."  The dark-haired stranger reached into his pocket, pulled out his ID, and displayed it.  "Alex Jagger.  Federal agent.  I'm sorry to tell you Rollo's been kidnapped."

                "Kidnapped?!"

                A few seconds later, Alex was seated in Max's trailer.  Max poured a third glass of wine and offered it to him.  Alex held up a hand to refuse it.

                 Vince examined Alex's ID.  "CIC?  Aren't you out of your jurisdiction?"

                "What happened?" Max asked before Alex could answer Vince's question.

                "I'm Simon McKay's bodyguard.  He knew Rollo; they went to dinner together."

                "The Little Person whose cap Rollo borrowed?" Max asked.

                Alex nodded.

                Vince thought a moment.  Simon McKay:  the name was familiar.  "Simon McKay.  The Wizard?"

                Alex nodded again.  "Simon and Rollo were eating dinner.  They knew each other from a Little People's convention.  They were almost done eating when two men came in wearing gas masks.  They fired a gas grenade.  When I came to, an hour later, Simon and Rollo were gone.  The cash register hadn't been touched.  Neither had anyone's wallets.  I'm assuming that Si- that Dr. McKay was the target and that Rollo was collateral damage.  But I need to rule out all possibilities.  Is there any chance that Rollo could have been the target?"

                Max shook his head.  "Rollo might have a jealous husband after him, or somebody who didn't expect a Little Person to hold his own in a barroom brawl and wanted revenge, but no one who'd use gas grenades."  He did not add that the police in several states would be interested in Rollo.  They wouldn't have gassed an entire restaurant just to arrest him.

                "I've already notified the FBI and the local police.  I gave them a picture of Rollo, but I wasn't able to tell them his last name."  Alex looked at Max expectantly.

                Max took another sip of wine before replying.  "Malini.  Rollo Malini."

                Vince raised an eyebrow at that.

                "I snapped a picture of Rollo during the show.  Would you have a better photo of him?  Maybe a close-up, preferably in civilian clothes," Alex suggested.

                Max opened a drawer and rummaged through it.  A moment later he pulled out a snapshot of Rollo in blue jeans and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt.

                Vince asked, "Where were you?"

                "An Italian place called Parisi's."    Alex took the photo.  "Thanks."

                "Were you able to get a good look at them, or did the gas masks--"

                Shaking his head, Alex interrupted Vince.  "Gas masks on their heads, gloves on their hands.  I couldn't even tell you if they were white, Black, Oriental, Hispanic, what."

                "When did all this happen?" Vince asked.

                "About an hour and a half, two hours ago.  Once I regained consciousness, I called 911.  I reported Dr. McKay's abduction to Washington, spoke with the local cops, then called the FBI office in Los Angeles."  Alex did a quick mental calculation.  "Just shy of two hours."

                "So they've got quite a head start."

                Alex looked up.  "Don't even think of trying to go after them yourself.  These are dangerous men.  Leave them to the professionals."

                "I will," Vince promised.  His voice and expression were as mild-mannered as Clark Kent or humble, lovable Shoeshine Boy.

                Max glanced sharply at Vince.  

                "If you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to looking for them."  Alex stood.  "Stay here in case the kidnappers call with a ransom demand.  The police will probably be here in a little bit."  He pulled a folded circus program out of his pocket and jotted a number down on it.  "Here's my cell phone number.  Call me if you hear from the kidnappers."

                Max nodded, walked him to the trailer door, and wished him luck.  Then he returned to his dressing table, picked up Alex's untouched wine glass, and drained half of it at a gulp.

                "Rollo Malini?" Vince asked.

                Max shrugged.  "I know most of his aliases, but I couldn't remember his real name off the top of my head."  He raised the wine glass to his lips.  He took a small sip.  "At the Carnival of Crime, we are all family.  Even you, my white sheep brother."

                Vince nodded.  For an ex-cop turned vigilante, being semi-adopted by a gang of thieves was an awkward situation, but he owed Max and his gang of larcenous circus performers his life a dozen times over.  They were his friends, his teachers, his new family.  And if his brother was in danger, then the Cape had no choice but to go after him.

                Max gestured at his brown face.  "What, with my complexion you thought I was born to a name like Malini?"  He swirled the wine in his glass, but did not drink.  "Bring him home."

                "I won't come back without him," Vince promised.

                "Be careful," Max urged.  "You can't save him if your recklessness gets you killed before you can rescue him."

                Vince opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't reckless, then shut it again.  He didn't have time to argue.  Rollo needed him.  "I'll be careful."

                Without another word,   Vince hurried to his own trailer.  Jammed between the mirror and its frame was the torn-off cover of a matchbook advertising a local bar.  A number was handwritten there:  284-1173.  Vince grabbed his cell phone and dialed 395-2284.  It was Orwell's current burn phone; she changed phones often.

                She picked up after the third ring.  "Hello."

                "I need your help.  Rollo is in trouble."  He didn't bother introducing himself.  He knew she'd recognize his voice.  He didn't bother with any pleasantries; there wasn't time.  He began changing clothes as he talked.

                "What's wrong?"

                "Rollo was kidnapped."

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                In her current hidey-hole, Jamie Fleming sat at her computer.[2]  The investigative blogger known only by her user-name, Orwell, was prowling the Internet, as she did every night.  She knew Peter Fleming was dirty.  She knew he was the criminal mastermind code-named Chess.  And somewhere, out there in the ether of cyberspace, was the evidence she needed to prove it.

                A telephone rang.  The brunette glanced up.  Four cell phones sat on the shelf above her.  She concentrated for a moment.  The number for this phone had only been entrusted to three people.  Different people, different phones.  Keeping her identity secret was a full time job.

                "Hello."

                She recognized Vince's voice right away.  "I need your help.  Rollo is in trouble."

                "What's wrong?"

                "Rollo was kidnapped."

                She swore softly.

                "I need you to tap into security cameras, find out who took him, and follow their trail.  Can you do that?" Vince asked.

                "Easy-peasy.  When and where was he taken?" Orwell asked.

                "Parisi's, on Chula Vista Boulevard, about two hours ago."

                "I know it.  Good lasagna."  Her fingers danced over the keyboard, pulling up Parisi's website.  "Why would someone kidnap Rollo?  Is it related to the Cape, or is it because of something the Carnival of Crime did, or what?"

                "It looks like he might have been collateral damage.  The real target seems to have been Dr. Simon McKay.  They were eating dinner together and they were both taken," Vince explained.

                "Who's Simon McKay?"

                "The Wizard."

                "The who?"

                "The Wizard.  You know, the toymaker and inventor."

                Orwell turned to her second laptop and Googled Simon McKay.  "Why would anyone kidnap a toymaker?"  Her eyes widened when Google came up with 25,243 hits.  The first was his own website:  www.thewizardofelmstreet.com.  The second was his Wikipedia.org entry.  The rest -- she quickly skimmed the summaries -- ranged from toys to computer programming, from weapons to missing persons, from bionics to Little People.  "Hmm, more than just an ordinary toymaker."  She looked over at the first computer.  She had hacked into the traffic camera outside Parisi's, and had scrolled back two and a half hours.  She fast-forwarded the video, watching for anything unusual.  It took a few minutes as Vince waited impatiently on the other end of the line.  "Bingo!"

                "You found him?"

                Orwell froze the picture on the screen.  "Rollo and another Little Person were carried out to a dark blue van.  No markings, license plate 944 JBF.  Both unconscious, can't tell if they're hurt or not.  The van went north on Chula Vista Boulevard."

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                The next hour was one of the most nerve-racking sixty minutes of Vince's life, rivalling when Dana went into labor with Trip and his time in the army in Afghanistan.  Orwell would track the van as far as the security camera would let her.  Then she would cast her cyber-eyes to the four winds, looking for all the nearby security cameras until she found one that had photographed the blue van.  It was a slow, tedious process.

                "Turn left on the corner of Rojo and Fedora," Orwell directed.  Vince heard a ding in the background.  "Hang on a minute, I think I may have something."

                Vince wanted to bite his nails.  He wanted to scream obscenities at the top of his lungs.  Instead, he drove the motorcycle where she told him, then pulled over to the side of the road to wait for more information.   And he waited.  Then he heard Orwell use a word he had heard many times as a cop -- felons have notoriously limited vocabularies -- and in the army, but which he had never heard from her lips before.  "What is it?"

                "I had one of my computers searching for any new references to Simon McKay.  Well, a video has just been posted to the Internet.  Let me replay it for you."

                There was a second's delay as Orwell put the phone next to the computer.  Then Vince heard:  "My name is Dr. Simon McKay.  I am an inventor and weapons designer.  My services are for sale to the highest bidder.  The bidding starts at one million dollars." 

                Vince inhaled.  "Can you track the video?"

                "Teach your grandmother how to suck eggs, why don't you?  Already on it," Orwell informed him.  "Keep going on Fedora."

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Alex went back to the hotel room he was sharing with Simon.  He opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, pushed the clothes aside, and pulled out Simon's laptop.  He plugged it in and waited impatiently for it to warm up.  These days, old-fashioned legwork had been replaced by surfing the 'Net.  Alex wasn't the expert with a computer that Simon was, but Simon was a good teacher.  Alex could do a lot more than just send e-mail and play Plants vs. Zombies.

                Once the computer was fired up, Alex set up a search program to watch for any new mention of Simon on the Web.  Opening a new tab, he logged onto an IADC[3] website.  He requested information on known felons, terrorists, etc. known to be in Palm City.

                Alex was shocked by how quickly the website offered a list of names.  A long list of names.  Chess, Scales, Razer, Gregor Molotov, Guy Royal, and Ella Gaines were known to be in Palm City.  Facial recognition software indicated it was probable that Raimonde LeFleur, Ali Hussein al-Nimr, and Nigel Katanga were in Palm City.   LeFleur was an assassin; he wouldn't have bothered abducting Simon and Rollo.  He would have just killed them in the restaurant.  Al-Nimr was an information broker, rumored to have ties to al-Qaeda.  Katanga was an arms dealer, primarily, but he'd also dabbled in drug smuggling and prostitution.  Either of them might have grabbed Simon.  Alex immediately set two more search programs going for any references to al-Nimr or Katanga.

                He stood and stretched.  He walked to the mini-fridge and grabbed a Coca-Cola.  He had a long night ahead; he'd need the caffeine.  Returning to the computer, Alex opened yet another tab, glad that Simon had souped up his laptop until it could do almost as much as a Cray.  He hacked into the Palm City Police Department's computer system.  Their firewall was good.  The hacking program Simon had written was better.

                He flipped from one webpage to another, checking on the progress of his searches, requesting more data on al-Nimr and Katanga.  On a hunch, he also requested information on the Cape.  He found information on a comic book character of that name.  He found an official memo from ARK, the private security firm that had taken over the Palm City Police Department, to all police officers, that the Cape was urban folklore.  He also found several reports from various officers mentioning the Cape, some describing him as a villain, some as a vigilante, one or two as a hero.

                He heard the chime of a cuckoo clock, and scrolled back to see which search program had found what.  The blood rushed from his face.  He swore under his breath.

                "My name is Dr. Simon McKay.  I am an inventor and weapons designer.  My services are for sale to the highest bidder.  The bidding starts at one million dollars." 

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                The recession had hit this neighborhood hard.  Half the stores were boarded up and abandoned.  The area was deserted, not even any winos or homeless.  The blue van was parked in an alley behind an office building with a 'for sale' sign in the front window.

                Vince hid the motorcycle behind a trash dumpster.  He threw up a grappling hook; it caught on a window ledge.  He tugged the rope.  The grappling hook held securely.  Up the wall he climbed.  The window was shut but not locked; he let himself into the building easily.

                Vince moved through the hallway as silently as a shadow.  Had anyone been there to see him, he could have passed for a shadow.  A voluminous black cape enveloped him.  A black mask hid the upper part of his face.  He wore black boots, slightly faded black pants, and beneath a blackened bronze chest-plate, a long-sleeved black shirt.  Black leather gloves covered his hands.So far he had found nothing and no one.  All the second floor offices were empty.  He took the stairs to the first floor and began searching there.

                The door to the staircase was by the bathrooms.  Vince checked the men's restroom.  No one was there, but one sink was slightly damp.  Either it had been used recently or the faucet was leaking.  He checked the faucet; it was shut tight.  He watched for a second.  There was no drip-drip-drip.

                He almost passed by the women's restroom, out of habit.  Then he stopped short.  "Who puts a padlock on the outside of a bathroom?"

                He pulled a lockpick out of his pocket and began working on the lock.  As he picked the lock, he smiled to himself at the irony of rescuing Rollo with the lockpick that Rollo himself had given him and taught him how to use.

                He flipped the light switch on.  In front of the stalls was a cot.  On the cot lay Simon and Rollo, their heads at either end.

                Rollo started to stir.  "Huh?  What?"

                Vince hurried to his side.  He placed one hand on Rollo's shoulder, the other over his mouth.  He shook gently.  "Shhh."

                Rollo's eyes opened wide.  "Vi- "  He closed his mouth before he could betray the Cape's secret identity.

                Vince knelt beside Simon.  He laid his right hand over the scientist's mouth so he couldn't cry out.  He rested his left hand on Simon's right shoulder.  "Dr.  McKay?  Time to go."

                Simon opened his eyes.  He blinked, so startled by the strangely-clad figure looming over him that he wondered if he were still dreaming.  "Who?  What?" he murmurred.

                "I'm here to get you out of here." Vince removed his hand from Simon's mouth.  He reached out to help Simon up.

                "Who -- who are you?" Simon asked.

                "A friend," Vince replied, his voice barely above a whisper.   "Either of you hurt?"

                "Not seriously."  Rollo put his shoes on; neither of them had bothered to undress before trying to get some sleep.

                "I wouldn't call an electric cattle prod nothing," Simon muttered. 

                "A cattle prod?" Vince turned to Rollo.

                "My arm's sore," Rollo admitted.  "I'll survive."

                "You up to driving a motorcycle?" Vince asked.

                Rollo nodded.  "Yeah, I can manage."

                "Good.  Your bike is out back, behind the dumpster.  The adapters are in the saddlebag."  Vince had, of course, removed the height adapters so he could ride Rollo's motorcycle.

                Rollo turned so Simon couldn't see or hear.  He mouthed, "How will you get home?"

                "I'll catch a cab," Vince mouthed back.  Aloud, he asked, "How many black-hats?"

                "Three," Simon replied.  "Two thugs and their boss."

                "Armed and dangerous," Rollo added.

                "Let's get you out of here first.  Then I'll come back and deal with them."

                "Count me in."  Rollo balled his right hand into a fist and slapped it into the palm of his left hand.  "It's payback time."

                Vince shook his head.  "Your job is to get Dr. McKay out of here.  My job is to take care of them."

                Rollo scowled, then nodded.

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                Peter Fleming was suffering from insomnia.  Again.  He had too much on his mind to sleep.

                His investigators still couldn't find a trace of his missing daughter.    His police found all too many traces of the Cape, yet couldn't manage to catch the costumed fool.  His five-year-plan was running a year, a year and a half, behind schedule, largely because of the Cape.  He'd expected to have complete control of Palm City by now, not just its police and a few of its public services.  He'd expected ARK to have taken over the policing of several other southern Californian towns.

                Wrapping a satin robe around his silk pajamas, he headed for his laptop.  Perhaps some mindless cyber-drivel would relax him.  He played half a game of Peggle, but quickly tired of aiming a virtual pinball at orange circles.   It seemed so pointless. 

                He went on-line.  He thought about checking Orwell's blog, to see what lies the so-called "investigative blogger" was spreading about him now.  No, it would only raise his blood pressure.  He didn't need the aggravation.  And when Orwell told the truth about him, it was even worse.  He wondered who Orwell really was, and what it would take to stop the bastard.  He wondered if someone on his staff was feeding Orwell information, and if so, whom. 

                If he found out one of his own people was selling information to Orwell, he'd need to contact Human Resources to make arrangements to pay out a widow's pension for that traitor.

                Instead, he logged onto ARK's internal website.  Had anything happened in his town that required his personal attention?  And Palm City was his town, or would be, soon.  Very soon.

                One homicide:  a battered wife who'd finally been pushed too far and struck back.  Some robberies.  A kidnapping.  One dark eyebrow rose as he read the victim's name.  Simon McKay.  Fleming had been a mechanical engineer before becoming an entrepreneur:  he was familiar with the diminutive scientist's work.  He immediately started a web-search for any new mention of the tiny toymaker.   Even kidnappers used the Internet these days.  If ARK could rescue Dr. McKay, the good doctor would be in his debt.  And he would be sure to collect the favor.

                It took him only minutes to find a very interesting video posted on-line.

                "My name is Dr. Simon McKay.  I am an inventor and weapons designer.  My services are for sale to the highest bidder.  The bidding starts at one million dollars." 

                Fleming leaned back and templed his fingers together.  Rescuing McKay would make Washington -- and Dr. McKay -- very grateful.  Buying Dr. McKay ... that had its advantages, too. 

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                As Alex disconnected the security system, he reflected that it was a good thing the average citizens didn't know how easy it was for the government to get information on them.  Only the overwhelming volume of data ensured privacy.  That, and the lack of interest.  Joe Average's personal information was a drop in an ocean of gathered -- and generally ignored -- computer data.  Once Alex had entered a request for information on al-Nimr and Katanga, the IADC had hacked into the security cameras at the Palm City Airport.  According to facial recognition software, there was an 85% chance that Katanga had rented a car at the airport.  Then the IADC had checked satellite images and security cameras all over town, reporting each time that car was spotted.

                That car was parked two buildings away.  Alex had checked out two stores, one vacant, one with a going-out-of-business sign.  Both were empty.  Now he was breaking into the office building on the corner.

                Sometimes it worried Alex, the ethics of his job.  He'd just broken into three buildings without a warrant.  And if Simon weren't here, he'd go across the street and break into the buildings on that side.  And he'd break into as many buildings as it took, until he found Simon.  The CIC had long feared that something like this might happen -- Simon kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder, then forced to design weapons for an enemy power or tortured for the classified information he knew.  Alex's private fear was different.  With all the alphabet soups in Washington -- OSI, SIA, ISD, CIC, IADC, FBI, CIA, OWCA, NID[4] \-- he feared that someday some unscrupulous agent might grab Simon.  All for the greater good, of course, in the name of national security.  A lot of people had been upset when Simon had his crisis of conscience and left the Pentagon.  Even more had been upset -- outraged -- when Simon had simply disappeared for six years.  When he reappeared and set up as a toymaker, refusing to say where he'd been and what he'd been up to all that time, half of Washington had wanted to clap him into protective custody to prevent it from ever happening again.  The CIC had had a hard time getting Simon to agree to a live-in bodyguard as a compromise.  In the time they'd been together, Simon had become more than just an assignment.  He'd become a friend.  Almost a brother.  And, Alex cursed himself, he hadn't been able to protect him.  He'd not only failed in his duty, he'd failed his friend.

                Alex eased the door open.  The lobby was dark and deserted.  No signs saying 'bad guys this way' with a big red arrow.  Alex suppressed a sigh; just once, he would have loved a sign like that.  He ignored the elevators.  If this was the right place, the noise might alert the kidnappers.  Drawing his gun from his holster, he listened carefully.   He heard something off to the right.  Slowly, silently, he headed in that direction.

                He peeked around the corner.  He definitely heard footsteps now.  He saw two figures moving in the darkness, and both of them were short.

                "Simon?" he dared to whisper.

                "Alex!"  The reply was barely above a whisper, but an excited, joyous whisper.  Simon started to hurry toward him.  Then a shadow placed a hand on the inventor's shoulder, forcing him to halt.

                Alex blinked.  Then he realized that what he had thought was a shadow was a man.  A man in black clothing.  "The Cape?"

                Vince nodded.  "Some people call me that.  Let's get these two out of here, and worry about introductions later."

                They had not gone more than four or five steps down the hallway when suddenly the lights came on, nearly blinding them.  Squinting against the brightness, they could make out three men at the end of the hallway.

                "Going somewhere, gentlemen?" they heard a British accent ask.

                Vince reached into his utility belt, pulled out a smoke bomb, and threw.  Before their eyes had time to adjust to the light, it was dark again.  He grabbed Simon and Rollo's hands and tried to pull them to safety.  Rollo's hand slipped out of his grip.

                Alex fired.  Answering fire came from the other end of the hallway.  He fired again, and was rewarded with a moan of pain and Spanish profanity.

                "Aim high," Katanga ordered.  "Dr. McKay is of no use to me dead."

                The smoke dissipated.  Simon, out of breath, found himself next to Alex.  He suppressed the urge to hug his friend.  He knew better than to interrupt Alex at a time like this.  His eyes widened as he saw Rollo rushing toward Jenkyns.

                Rollo ran directly at Jenkyns, head-butting his stomach.  Before Jenkyns could recover, he kicked his ankle sharply, then grabbed Jenkyns' arms.  His right arm Rollo forced up, trying to keep the gun away from himself.  His left arm Rollo pulled down with his not inconsiderable strength, and then bit the wrist.  Jenkyns yowled.

                Rollo saw a flash of ebony out of the corner of his eye.  The Cape stood behind him.  He smiled, grateful for the back-up.

                Vince swung his fist.  It connected with Jenkyns' jaw.  Rollo kicked Jenkyns' knee.  The gunsel fell backward.  From the sickening sound, Rollo suspected he'd broken the man's kneecap.

                "Federal agent," Alex announced.  "Put the gun down, Katanga."

                Vince furled a corner of his cape.  As prehensile as a monkey's tail, it grabbed the gun in Katanga's hand.  He pulled the cape back, and the gun fell to the floor.  It discharged as it hit.  Vince flinched.  The bullet grazed his left arm before burying itself in the wall.  His right arm was still fine, though, so Vince punched Katanga as hard as he could.  Katanga staggered back, barely catching himself against the wall so he could remain upright.

                Rollo kicked Lopez in the ribs.  He wanted to make sure he wasn't healthy enough to rejoin the fight ... even if he hadn't owed him for the knifework.

                "It's over, Katanga.  Hands up."  Alex didn't dare fire again, for fear of hitting Rollo or the Cape.

                Vince glanced at the carnage in the hallway.    It was over, or close enough not to matter.  Agent Jagger could handle things from here.  His presence would only complicate matters when it came to typing up arrest reports.  He pulled a second smoke bomb from his belt.  Under the cover of the smoke, he grabbed Katanga and flung him to the floor with a judo throw.  Whispering a quick "Later" to Rollo, he hurried out the way Katanga and his men had come in.

                When the smoke cleared, the Cape was gone.  Katanga, Jenkyns, and Lopez lay on the floor, moaning softly.  Alex blinked.  The changes from dark to light and back again (and again) were hard on his eyes.  He exhaled.  "Are you all right?"

                "Now that you're here."  Simon took a deep breath. " 'Who was that masked man?' "

                "Him Cape, _kemosabe_."  Alex knelt and gave Simon a quick hug.  Then he rose to check on Katanga and his men.  He made sure they were disarmed, then handcuffed them with their own fetters. 

                "That’s the worst Jay Silverheels imitation I’ve ever heard,” Rollo complained.  “Gotham City has Batman.  Metropolis has Superman.  Palm City has the Cape," he announced, unable to keep the smug tone out of his voice.

                "Batman and Superman are comic book characters," Simon pointed out.  "Imaginary."

                "Actually, so is the Cape," Alex replied.  "It's out of print, but it is a comic book."

                "I thought you were the one who said imagination was everything, Doc."

                "Actually, that was Einstein, but I've quoted him frequently."  Simon had a poster in his lab at home with Albert Einstein's famous declaration 'To know is nothing at all.  To imagine is everything.'

                  Alex checked the kidnappers' wounds.  They wouldn't die.  "Are you okay, Rollo?"

                "Walking wounded.  I'm hurt, but I'm healthy enough to get out of here.  And the sooner, the better," Rollo declared.

                Alex nodded.   He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to call 911.

                **                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **

                "Thanks," Rollo said to the EMT who'd just finished bandaging his arm.

                "You're welcome," she replied.  "Now let's get you buckled in."

                "Buckled in?"  Rollo shook his head.  "Sorry, honey, normally I'd love to take a ride with a beautiful woman, but I don't need to go to the hospital.  You patched me up just fine."

                "Sir, a doctor needs to see that arm."

                "Naw, a good night's rest and I'll be right as rain."  Rollo smiled up at her.  "Now if you wanted to take me home and tuck me in?"

                "My husband would object," she replied dryly.  "Now buckle up, please."

                Rollo started to scramble to the open door at the rear of the ambulance.  Alex and Simon blocked the way out.

                "Is there a problem?" Alex asked.

                "He doesn't want to go to the hospital."  The EMT packed up her first aid supplies.

                "Don't have insurance," Rollo fibbed.

                "The CIC will pay the bill," Alex promised.  "But you need to have your arm checked by a doctor, and I need to have your wounds documented as evidence.  I don't want these guys slipping out of court on a technicality because we didn't have all our i's dotted and t's crossed."

                "I'll get Max to take a picture of them in the morning.  Right now, I just want to go home and hit the sack."

                "I doubt the buses are running this late.  Don't be so stubborn.  I'll drive you home once you're finished at the hospital.  Or you can call one of your circus pals to pick you up; they're probably worried sick about you."

                "I can--"

                Simon interrupted before Rollo could say anything more.  "Let me talk some sense into his thick head."  He climbed into the ambulance and whispered to Rollo.  "How are you going to explain to Alex that you can get home by yourself because the Cape brought your motorcycle here?   Then he's going to want to know how you know the Cape."

                Rollo inhaled sharply.

                "I have two besetting sins," Simon confessed.   "One is an incurable sweet tooth.  The other is an insatiable curiosity, worse than Kipling's Elephant's Child.  I'll control my curiosity this once, and respect your privacy, and his.  But Alex is a CIC agent.  He may feel obliged to investigate ...if he knows there's something to investigate."

                Rollo nodded.   Pete Ross had to help protect Clark Kent's secret identity.  If he had to go to the hospital to protect Vince's secret identity ....  "Okay, you win."

_**                           **                           **                           **                           **                           **_

                Simon had planned to be at the circus bright and early.  However, after the excitement of the night before, he and Alex had slept in until almost ten.  Between brunch and packing, it was past eleven before they arrived at Trolley Park.  They saw the ringmaster wandering the grounds, a clipboard in hand.

                “Sorry, we’re not open yet,” Max began.  Then he smiled.  “Oh, it’s you.  You look much better than when I saw you at the hospital last night.”

                “Is Rollo around?” Simon asked.

                Max nodded.  He turned to face a dark-skinned man who was juggling.  "Ruvi, tell Rollo he's got company."   

                Ruvi nodded and headed into the big top.  He wore a blue polo shirt, khaki slacks, and a turban.

                "Rollo will be out in a minute.  If you'll excuse me, please," Max lifted up the clipboard to bring it to their attention, "I need to finish the safety checklist before the audience arrives."

                "Of course," Alex said.

                Simon nodded.  Max gave him a half-bow and returned to his work.  Simon and Max looked around.  The grounds looked ... wrong.  It was almost like being in a _Twilight Zone_ version of the circus:  no eager children shouting gleefully, no music, no scent of cotton candy, no barkers calling people to the rides or the carnival games.  The only people visible were the ringmaster doing his safety check, one man sweeping up the grounds with a push-broom, and another man washing the elephants.

                "Hey, Doc!"

                Alex and Simon turned to see Rollo coming toward them.  Rollo started to shake hands with Simon.  Instead, Simon clasped his wrist.  Rollo did likewise.  After the ordeal they'd been through, mere handshakes weren't enough. 

                "After what we've been through, it's Simon," the toymaker corrected.  "How's the arm?"           

                "Hurts like hell," Rollo admitted.  "Max says I can't work 'til the doctor gives his okay.  Don't suppose you'd like to take my place in the show for a few days?"

                His tone had been half-joking, but Simon's eyes lit up nevertheless. 

                Alex laid a restraining hand on Simon's shoulder.  "We have to get home."

                "Yes, but -- "

                "Siii -mon," Alex stretched his name out into a fond, but exasperated warning.

                Simon sighed.  "We really do have to be getting home.  I just wanted to check how you were before we left."

                " 'Preciate that," Rollo told him.  "Sorry you can't stay longer."

                "We need to get back to L. A., where it's safer.  All I have to worry about there are the smog and the traffic jams."  As Rollo chuckled, Simon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card.  "Here's my phone number and e'dress.  Don't be a stranger."

                "I won't," Rollo promised.  "Before you go, though, I want you to meet a friend of mine."  He turned to the brown-haired man washing the elephants.  "Hey, Vince, come over here a minute."

                Vince, a tall, muscular man in blue jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, turned off the hose and hurried over to Rollo, Alex, and Simon. 

                "I want you to meet my friend Vince," Rollo announced.

                Simon noticed the bump under the left sleeve.  It was right where the Cape would need a bandage from the bullet grazing him the night before.  He politely didn't mention the bump, or his suspicions.  "Simon McKay.  This is my friend, Alex Jagger."

Vince shook Alex's and Simon's hands. "Vincenzo Malini," he introduced himself, "but my friends call me Vince." 

                Max looked up from the carousel motor he'd been examining.  He smiled at hearing the name.  His white sheep brother was accepting his place as part of the Carnival of Crime ... even if he was the only law-abiding member of the family.

The End

  


* * *

[1] Little People of America

[2] "To avoid complications, she never kept the same address.  In conversation, she spoke just like a baroness."

[3] Inter-Agency Defense Command, from the 70's _The New Adventures of Wonder Woman_ TV show on CBS

[4] OSI, _$6,000,000 Man, Bionic Woman_ , SIA, _It Takes a Thief_ , ISD, _She Spies_ , CIC, _The Wizard_ , IADC, _The New Adventures of Wonder Woman,_ FBI, _Criminal Minds, Without a Trace, Numb3rs, Sue Thomas F. B. Eye, Bones,_  etc., CIA, _The Agency,_ OWCA, _Phineas and Ferb,_ NID, _Stargate SG-1._


End file.
